


Monster Inside

by glittergrenade



Category: Dr. Dre (Musician), Eminem (Musician), Rihanna (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Bromance to Romance, Dre the comfort brotha, Drugs, Friendship/Love, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentions of Hailie and Kim, Mood Swings, OCD, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, bussiness Rihanna, cray Em, misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittergrenade/pseuds/glittergrenade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months, and now Rihanna has to leave on tour. That leaves Eminem to the care of Dr. Dre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster Inside

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic is based on The Monster music video, it's very very loosely (I mean it is Dre/Em lol). I mean yeah of course it's inspired by that video, but... well... ya see. It's kinda sensitive/triggery so warning for that. K.
> 
> I kinda wanted to put Hailie actually in the story, but obviously irl she prefers her life to be private, so it probably wouldn't be fair to write fanfics like this about her... I mean she's just a girl like any other, right? She deserves as closest to a normal life as she can get. Lol so yeah she's mentioned but she's not in it. I hope her life is good and now maybe I should stop rambling about her now. :)

Dr. Dre was exhausted. He had just had a long day in the studio, working on a track with Snoop Dogg that, even though Snoop was a real good brotha, right now he couldn't help but feel it would be so much doper with Eminem in it. It'd fit his unique voice, his rawness.

Another reason he felt particularly exhausted today. Hella concerned or not, he dreaded actually the planned act of getting into Em's presence. He was afraid of what he might see. Rihanna had told him over the phone that Em seemed to be doing worse than when he'd last visited. These days it wouldn't be easy for Em to take a visit, let alone switching caretakers; but Rihanna had put this off as long as she could and she really needed to leave for touring. She couldn't disappoint her fans.

Well, Dre was no fan of disappointing the people who hadn't forgot about him either, but he'd rather let the whole world forget about Dre than let Eminem suffer. Anyhow, that was Rihanna's business. And she had taken care of Em enough while Dre buried his sorrows in recording. Now it was time to have his friend's back, just as he always said. Dre only hoped he was adequate to take care of him… he didn't feel qualified as Rihanna. Hell, he wasn't qualified to do anything, what was he but an uneducated gangsta straight outta Compton?

He got out of the car at Rihanna's house, and ran to the door. Rihanna answered in a hot pair of glasses before he even knocked. "Finally!" She seemed stressed, which always made her Barbadian accent stronger. "My crew have been waiting, I'm going to miss my flight… look Dre, I wrote down what you need for Em's care. It's one of his better days fortunately, but still I'd suggest you spend some time with him here before taking him to your crib. I've got to go, okay? It's time to give him his meds, I left them on the counter, 500 milligrams. I still think we should call the hospital… altogether he's regressing badly — wait Dre, before you call me a bitch, remember that similar institutions have helped him in the past… you got nothing against drug rehab, do you?"

"Rihanna, I ain't putting the only man who never abandoned me in the loony bin." Dre wasn't mad at her, she was a good person. He was just not going to bend on that fact. Em deserved better than that.

"Okay, okay, and I've been taking care of him long enough. Another reason you need to take charge — he can get violent sometimes and I've had my share of men violent against me. Not that I'm comparing him to Chis at all… nobody is like Chris. But he's irrelevant. This is Eminem. Sometimes he has bouts of clarity, but lately those are brief and long between. He's comparatively well at the moment. Anyhow I need to go, Dre. Here's the keys, you know where his room is. Driver!" After slapping the keys in his hand, she ran off to her sleek black car, and it pulled away almost instantly.

Dre watched her go, and sighed, the heavy feeling growing and twisting itself in his chest. Then he turned away and walked inside. A labelled bottle of capsules was sitting on the kitchen counter, as Rihanna had said, next to a sheet of printer paper with detailed instructions of what to do. Apparently, these days, any straying from what had become Em's normal routine could shatter him badly.

On that note, a cry reached Dre's ears, and he jerked his head up. _Eminem._ He grabbed the pills and a half-full glass of water from the counter, then ran to its source. Skidding, he swung wide open the door of Em's room, and stared in, frantically.

Em's bed appeared to be made and unslept in. It took Dre's eyes a moment to find and settle on man himself. Em was sitting in the corner in an upright fetal position, his knees drawn to his chest and his hands over his head, shaking violently. Dre instantly ran to his side, putting down the things in his hands and wrapping his arms around his friend. "Eminem. Em? It's me, it's Dre, I'm here. You're safe."

Em was still shaking badly under Dre's grip. "Nuh… no. Nuh-uh."

"You're safe," Dre repeated firmly, feeling more and more hollow.

"Dre?" Eminem whispered as if only just realizing his presence, and his pale hand grasped suddenly onto one of Dre's brown ones. Dre squeezed, hopefully reassuringly.

"Yeah. Same old me. You be coming to live with me now, how you like that? Remember how you was always there for me when shit was tough? Imma do the same for you, nigga. Just as I always did before. I got you signed on my label, remember? You ain't never gonn' get taken away, I promise."

Em raised his head slightly, trembling. His whiteboy hair, normally kept cropped short, was a mess, only the tips bleached and glued to his sweaty forehead. "Dre… I can't hear you, Dre… it's too loud… it's too…" he put his hands to his ears, wincing as if in pain. Dre swallowed, unsure what to do. There was no sound but Eminem's raspy breathing.

And Dre remembered the medicine. "Here," he said, letting go of his friend to unscrew the pill bottle. Em gasped sharply. "It's aight, I'm still here," Dre reassured instantly, measuring out 5 pills in his hand. He ran his hand though Em's hair, then lifted the cup of water. "Here, homie, swallow these pills. You be okay."

"It's too loud," Em lowered his head again.

"This'll quiet it," Dre raised his voice, though he didn't know if that would make a difference when the noise was in Em's head.

Em looked up sharply and grabbed the water glass in both hands. Dre jumped. Em's eyes seemed fixated on the water.

Dre watched him carefully. "Eminem? You want your pills?" He held them out in one hand, and slowly Em's gaze moved to somewhere to the vicinity of his face. Dre spoke slowly. "It'll tell that noise you hearing to shut the fuck up."

Suddenly the glass left Em's hand, and Dre whirled to see it slam into the wall, shattering in a flurry of glass and water. Well. He certainly was high-maintenance.

Not that it mattered. Em was glaring at the wall madly, and leapt to his feet. Then he seemed to stumble down again. "Em!" Dre tried to grab him, but Em only thrashed hard as that man could, which was pretty damn hard; and sent Dre sprawling in a spray of pills. Well, so much for that. But Dre was a real nigga, he jumped right back to his feet. "Marshall!" he yelled Em's real name, trying to get a firm grip on his arms. Presently Eminem stopped struggling, instead scooting himself back tight into the corner, his entire body shuddering.

"Dre…" he whispered, and his eyes flickered downwards. "I'm so sorry."

"No." Dre put a gentle arm overtop Em's, unable to stop feeling anxious. "You didn't hurt me, and it's not your fault. You been through a lot, Em… ain't your fault it mess with you this way. How about I get another glass of water and we can try those pills again?"

Em bit his lip, the shaking getting up again. He shook his head. "No. Fuck no, no, no… it… it hurts me. It burns. It's fire. It screams at me. Can't… can't you hear it Dre? Can't nobody else hear it?" Tears started in his eyes. Oh, shit. Eminem could go through a lot of bad shit without crying, he'd had to all his life. It must be so lonely to feel like nobody else understood his world. Because really, these days, they didn't. They couldn't. He had become too distanced from reality. But at least he still had some connections, and Dre couldn't let those slip away.

"I'm sorry," Dre paused. "Your meds should help, though. I don't know how much badder the noise will be if you stop taking it."

"Shh," Em hissed suddenly, and Dre wasn't sure he'd even heard him.

"Nigga—" he began, but Em cut him off urgently.

" _Shhh_!" he seemed to be pointing at his bed.

Dre looked. There didn't seem to be anything there, but… evidently there was to Eminem, and Dre wasn't about to dismiss that.

"It's okay," he whispered very softly, so as not to worry him.

Em blinked. "Yeah. It's okay. It…" his eyes didn't stray from the perfectly made bed. Cautiously he began counting on his fingers.

"Will you take the pills?" Dre persisted.

Still counting. "I…" As he got to ten, Em looked suddenly at Dre again, and grasped at his shirt. "Hailie! Where Hailie at? Oh my God, where she at?!" His whole body language and expression had changed in an instant, from, well it wouldn't be right to say calm, but from a lot calmer, to absolute terror.

"She fine," Dre stroked Eminem's fingers softly. "Your daughter's a big girl now, Em. Maybe I can bring her by sometime."

"Oh." Em buried his face in his knees, gasping with relief. His head jerked up again. "Who's with her?"

"She a big girl now," Dre repeated, but Em grabbed at his wrists very suddenly.

"She can't be alone! Who with her? Is she alone? Who with her? Tell me you didn't fucking leave my baby alone to see me!" He looked frantic — not to mention entirely on the edge of assaulting Dre again.

"Chillax, Em." Dre tried to sound commanding and assuring at the same time. "She with Kim," he then admitted. _More for Kim's benefit and sanity than for Hailie, yeah._ Kim was having a hard time dealing with Em's recent decline, no matter how much hurt there was between them. "Look, however you feel bout your ex-bitch, don't matter here. You know she loves Hailie. We both do."

"She good. She good. Oh my God. Holla at her from me, aight? Let her know Daddy still loves her. Remind her that. I haven't seen her in too long." Em took deep breaths.

"As much as I hate to keep bringing this up…" Dre trailed off as he glanced around at the pills. He really didn't want to keep bringing this up. It clearly wasn't helping right now, maybe the idea was even hurting him more than the meds could relieve him. Fuck, how did Rihanna ever manage this? "Hey Slim," Dre changed his mind suddenly, reaching into his pocket for a packet and some rolling papers. "How bout a joint?"

"Huh?" Eminem squinted, as Dre took out a paper and shuffled the leaves along the center, before proceeding to roll.

"Did Ri let you smoke?" he asked, lighting it once it was ready.

Eminem didn't reply. He was staring at the joint, but he seemed reluctant to touch it. Not wanting to waste a cinder, Dre breathed in deeply. Well, if they were gonna smoke, might as well do it together. He leaned up close to Em's face, and breathed out slowly. Em coughed as if in surprise, then breathed in, closing his eyes. Dre smiled slightly. They used to do drugs together all the time, way back when. Of course Dre wasn't about to offer him any hard stuff, not now, not when that types of drugs had likely contributed to Em's so brain getting so fucked up. But weed should be calming… it should help him. Then a sense of sadness flooded over Dre, stronger than the marijuana scent that flooded the room.

Dre lit the doobie again, offering it to Em, but again he didn't take it, so again Dre breathed into his mouth. This time he went closer, so their lips nearly touched. Eminem blinked as he inhaled, his warm hazel eyes staring into Dre's brown ones. Then Dre pulled back and took another draw.

"Secondhand smoke kills," Em whispered.

"What?" Dre paused, spluttering a little.

Eminem smiled somewhat sadly. "It kills everything."

"I'm not tryna kill you, you know that right?" Dre was concerned.

Em nodded. "Ain't nothing beat slit throats."

"Yeah. Good. Sides, that's (probably, maybe) tobacco smoke you thinking of, not mary jane. You good. Is it helping?"

Em nodded again. "It's quieter already. They… they kinda nice, Dre. The voices, I mean. They ain't bad right now."

"That… I'm glad." Dre really didn't know what else to say.

"They approve of you, Dre, all but one," Em closed his eyes. "That a really good thing. 'Cuz sometimes they talk me into doing things I don't originally wanna do, but if they like you, you're safe, and I feel better about that."

"I'm glad." Dre didn't know what else to say.

"Can you…?" Em pointed at the joint. Dre nodded, and with another click of his lighter took another draw, exhaling deeply on his face.

Em breathed in, tilting his head forwards so that their lips actually touched, the pot smoke curling between them. They both paused, and Em licked Dre's lip before leaning back against the wall. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's good." Dre cracked a faint smile. Eminem did have one hella tongue.

Em smiled back at him faintly, then blinked. "Dre… I think this weed be making me sleepy. I… I ain't slept in a hella long time."

"Guess you should get to bed then," Dre suggested. Yeah, they could hang at Rihanna's place for a bit. She'd suggested it herself, right? Dre stood up, reaching for Em's hands. Eminem grasped his and stood up shakily, leaning against the wall. Then he fumbled at his sweatshirt. Dre helped him get it off. "You want pajamas, or…" Dre stopped short, biting his tongue abruptly to keep himself from crying out. Em's bare arms were covered in red scratches, lines of dried blood, marking him up like a scarecrow of red straws. Only the smiling tattoo of his daughter on his right bicep was untouched, as if his love for her had stayed away harm.

Em didn't seem to register Dre's look of horror, but just jerkily shook his head no, fanning himself vaguely and blinking his droopy eyelids. "It's hot, don't you think?"

"Em…" Dre touched his hand, and held it gently, his eyes tracing his arms slowly. So many cuts. Em followed his gaze, as if confused as to what Dre was looking at, then stiffened, pulling back from him. "Em!" Dre repeated.

"I…" Em sat down, wrapping his arms defensively between his legs and resting his chin on his knees. "I didn't think I really did that."

"Does it hurt?" Dre paused. He was a gangsta, he was an idiot, he was no stranger to pain. But what Em did to himself… "I thought you didn't cut," the words fell from Dre's lips.

"I thought it wasn't real. I thought it was in my head." Tears started again in Eminem's eyes. "I need it, Dre. You dunno what it be like, what this shit does to me. You dunno." He blinked, hard. "I know it's fucked up but how fucked up I is already cancels it. Please don't be mad."

"I… I ain't mad, Slim, I could never be mad about that…" Dre trailed off, clenching the worn-out sweatshirt between his fists. Never mad. Just broken… and a feeling that he was extremely horribly useless.

Em's eyes went to the sweatshirt, and hesitantly he held up his hands, peeping them out from the security of his faded jeans. When Dre made no response, Em whispered a single word. "Gimme."

Dre shook his head, trying to be cool. "I thought you said you was feeling too hot for clothes?"

"Gimme my damn sweatshirt," Em repeated with quiet warning that really didn't faze Dre. Em was sweating from his face, and his teeth were grit hard in an indescribable expression. His arms came fully out, no longer too shy of the cuts, his fists clenched in obvious emotion. Dre didn't respond to him, trying to think of how best to put his thoughts.

"Just gimme the motherfucking sweatshirt!" Em growled, jumping to his feet and lunging at him in one fluid motion. Dre hadn't expected that, and toppled over, hitting his head hard. He lay there, dazed, but somehow as if by instinct his fingers remained clutched around the fabric as Em straddled him, wrestling for it back and yelling obscenities while spitting in Dre's face.

Okay, now Dre definitely wasn't giving the sweatshirt back.

"Em!" He shouted once he regained himself, sitting up as his head throbbed as though a lump was already forming under his skin. "Em! It's Dre! Look at me!" He held on tight to the sweatshirt as Em scratched at his fingers and pried at his knuckles. Good thing Dre had kept his muscles in good shape.

"Give it back, Dre!" Em yelled. "It's fucking mine, give it the fuck back!"

"Not till you calm down!" Dre shoved Em, maybe a little too harshly, off him; but Dre stood up quickly and grabbed his roughed-up arms, causing Em to wince. "Now I know why Ri got a straightjacket for you. Did her security crew deal with you, manage to keep it all under wraps?"

"Please Dre," Em was struggling weakly now, but a look of sorrow had seemed to wave over him. He was a literal mess of tears and drool that smeared down his chin. "If you was really my homie, you'd give it to me. If you really cared about me you'd give it back. It just a sweatshirt, just a tiny thing. You going out of your way to make things hard on me, Dre, why, why can't you do such a tiny thing?"

"I did more than a tiny thing for you, Slim." Dre frowned at him.

Em sniffled, frowning. "You're right. You got me with Aftermath and saved my life so now you've filled your due, ain't that it? Guess that's more than fair…"

"Fuck that shit, Em!" Dre was frustrated on the point of furious. "You want this sweatshirt to cover up your… your realness. I can't have that on such…" he paused. _Such a beautifulass motherfucker._ "I don't want you to feel you have to hide, Em. Not from me."

"I… Shady don't hide nothing." Em took a few breaths. "I don't want seeing my cuts to hurt you. I — I don't want you to hurt."

"So your solution is to attack me physically and tell me I don't love you?" Dre was cautious, he didn't want to cause Em more pain, but he needed him to understand. Understanding was the first step to clarity, right? To being okay. Anyhow, Em needed to know that he was a priority in Dre's interests. That he was loved. " _That_ hurts me, Em. You get how it don't make no sense?"

"Well, fuck," Eminem scowled and lowered his head, and Dre made the decision to sit beside him again, to put a hand supportively on his back. Em didn't seem to mind too much.

"It's aight, Em. It's aight. Not seeing the cuts ain't gonn make me forget anyhow; if it did, well, then, we ain't no homies. Do you… you wanna talk about it?"

"What there to say that you don't already know, dawg?" Em sighed. "I… these days, sometimes, I don't even realize I'm doing it. It just… it feels so good and a rush and it helps it all go away… you ain't got no way of knowing of what things be like for me lately. You're a good man, Dre, I'm just fucked up." His brow scrunched, as if in literal frustration. "I do know that, Dre, always fucking have."

"It don't matter, we all fucked up or we wouldn't be in this line of work."

Em gazed at him. "Is that a thing we should settle at? Rihanna don't even lemme see no therapist no more, Dre, though I think I should 'cause my childhood was so fucked up."

 _She knows I don't want you taken away, Em… thanks Rihanna_. Dre hesitated. "Therapist confidentiality only applies if you don't tell them nothing to indicate you be a danger to yourself and/or others. You might be both."

"Ha," Em snorted, then looked concerned suddenly. "Am I trippin' or is that swelling? Did I hurt you, Dre?"

Dre touched his head lightly. Yeah, it hurt like a motherfucker, but he was too focused on more important things for that to bother him much. "Just a surface wound. I'm fine as a rain, Em. You — you look fine, by the way. Especially for a sad nigga. You look good."

"For reals?" Em looked at his arms. "Rihanna ain't let me near the gym since Shady tried to off this butch hoe who was flashing in her tiny gym shorty shorts… Shady's an idiot, he… _I_ , fuck it… I thought she was Kim. Fuck paranoia and fuck the voices in my head."

"I ain't be able to tell, not from them biceps," Dre gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, trying not to pay too much attention to Em's actual words there.

Em stared down at himself, blinking his tearswollen eyes. "Do I really look okay, Dre?"

"Fuck yes you look great," Dre emphasized honestly. "You cute." _Gorgeous_. Poor Em… poor Em.

"I'm so sleepy again," Em yawned.

"Then you should sleep." Dre tossed the sweatshirt behind him, and to his relief, Em didn't go for it. Instead, he seemed to have something else to say.

"I'm… Dre, will you stay with me while I sleep?" Em's eyes were so pleading it could break the iciest heart, and Dr Dre was no snow cone.

"Of course, Em," he said, helping Eminem slide out of his jeans and onto the bed. Pulling back the bedspread, Dre tucked him in with just the sheet, and clasped one of his hands again in his. "I'm with you," he promised, plopping his ass onto the side table.

Eminem lay peacefully, but he didn't close his eyes, and he gazed at Dre. "Can I ask you something?" he whispered.

"Anything, Marshall," Dre replied softly.

"Rihanna says I'm crazy. Do you think I'm crazy?"

Dre hesitated. _Think_? Not _think_ , make that _know_. "How bout mentally divergent?" Dre quoted a random Brad Pitt movie he had seen once.

"That's the same thing, right?" Em sighed. "Well then, you better not call me Marshall. Marshall Mathers is damaged, but… it's Slim Shady who's crazy. Crazy brainy, too." He smiled vaguely. "Dre, it's a lot quieter now. They nicer. I think… if I could make friends with the voices inside of my head… get along with the monster that's under my bed… if I could stop being so hard to get along with then I could be okay. I could go back to my normal life. Dre… I should warn you, I'm not always like this. Sometimes… sometimes Shady comes out more than I want him to and I can't control him. And I'm not some loony, I know Slim is me, but Dre. And I — maybe it's on me, maybe I had one too many shrooms back in the day, I dunno, but. Sometimes it ain't just that I can see things others can't; sometimes I can't see things others can, too. Did Rihanna tell you about this?"

"She said you could get violent, as in even violenter than your old norm," Dre said, feeling a mix of awkwardness and pity and maybe relief that Em was having an intelligent conversation about his mental health. "She also said this was one of your better days."

Eminem sighed. "I'm not crazy as I make out in my raps."

"Right, whatever you say."

"Whatever, Dre."

"Whatever, Slim."

"Fuck you," Em smirked.

"I love you," Dre replied earnestly.

Em closed his eyes. "Yo Dre, my head always been a noisy place. That's why I'm a rapper. All my lyrics, they take hard work, but the noise, too. I used to be able to pour all that noise into my songs and hip hop but I can't do it no more and it's all crowding and it's really loud, Dre. The world looks so different these days… I wish you could see it through my eyes. Everything is alive and screaming. There's creatures and people everywhere that none of my old friends see. If I am crazy, I suppose I can't know if you're real or not, but my perception is all I got, so maybe… maybe it ain't so bad."

"I'm real, Em," Dre squeezed his hand in his. "I be your constant now. I be here for you now."

"Thank you," Eminem whispered. There was a silence. Minutes passed and Dre didn't speak, but just sat there, holding his hand.

Presently, Em shuddered. "Oh my God!" he winced without opening his eyes. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"What?" Dre reacted instantly in a jolt of shock that he felt he shouldn't have, touching Em's face. "Em. I'm here. Whatever you're thinking, it just in your head, remember?"

"No, no," he shook his head, his eyes blinking now and panicked. "I'm not lying, why you lying? I'm not lying!"

"Hey, I believe you," Dre said softly, desperately.

"They're here," Em hissed, flinching.

" _'They'_ ain't gonn hurt you," Dre tried to assure him. "Not while I'm around." Aw man, if this was regular, no wonder Em hadn't slept in a hella long time. "Hey, how about more weed? Our joint ain't finished." He picked up the ashy doobie, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Here. You be good." He lit it up again quickly and took another draw, and exhaled near Em's face. Em however thrashed out abruptly and shoved him in the face, so he couldn't be sure how much got in.

"Fuck!" Dre swore, rubbing at his nose. That stung. But he'd undergone worse, he could walk it off. Hell, he could walk it off right onto Em's bed, and that's exactly what he did, wrapping his arms tightly around the white boy. Half was to restrain him; half to reassure him. "Eminem! You know me, Mr AK NWA, toughass gangsta from Compton. Ain't nothing bad happen to either of us while I'm here. I promise."

Em struggled, and Dre almost wished the guy had been gym-banned for longer. But maybe not. His muscles were hot. Besides, Dre was stronger, when it really came down to it, which he reenforced with calming whispers. Eventually Em relaxed a little, and Dre softened his grip. "You aight. You be aight." Presently he added, "You wanna smoke?"

There was a pause. Em nodded; or it might've been his head twitching; but Dre took it as a yes and picked up the joint, lighting it in one hand. He took a draw, and breathed against Em's lips. Em put a hand suddenly on the back of Dre's head, holding it there. Their lips touched, and Eminem seemed to be kissing him.

Dre enjoyed it.

Then he pulled away, gasping and feeling like trash. That had _not_ just happened.

"Em?" he hissed.

"I'm sorry," Em whimpered. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." Dre paused, wondering whether he was apologizing for the kissing or for the thrashing. The kissing was nice, but Dre was really pretty sure he was not homosexual, and besides, in Em's state of mind it practically would be taking advantage of him. If Dre was even into that kinda thing. Yeah.

"Do you still want me to eat that poison?" Em's voice was very low.

"What? The pot?" Dre frowned, confused.

"The red shit," Em corrected softly.

"Your pills?"

"Uh-huh."

"Uh." Dre snuggled under the sheet, throwing it and his arms over Em now to protect him from the world, tossing the doobie aside. "We can wait till you've got some sleep. Anybody thinks clearer after a good night's sleep; I know this. I be with you." There was a pause.

"Dre?" Em yawned, as a new sense of calm and tranquility seemed to wash over the room.

"Yeah nigga?"

"I love you."

"Love you too, nigga."

"I love you a real lot, dawg, like, all sensational like."

"I know, Slim."

"Thanks for not leaving me."

"Of course. You ain't never gotta worry bout that."

"Then can we record a new track in the morning?" Em's question was eager, but there was more than a hint of sad longing that permeated it. "Together? Like old times?" he added hopefully.

Dre hesitated, his own heart aching. Recording a track with Eminem… that was exactly what he'd been longing for most of the day. If only… damn. Dre swallowed, trying to sound light. "Yeah, like old times! Let's see how we both feel in the morning, and then… that would be great. Let's work on a new song. Freestyle to warm up. Studio at ten o' clock."

"Dope. I'll be there right on the dot…" Em whispered, though the sentence seemed to trail off at the end. Dre gently stroked his arm, snuggling closer against him, and closed his eyes.

"Em?" he whispered quietly. Em didn't answer, but when Dre lifted his head to get a look at his expression, a vague smile seemed to grace his sleeping face.

Dre lay down again, curling his body protectively around Em. He loved Eminem, he had for a long time; that much was certain. And so no matter how unqualified, how uneducated Dre was, how messed up Dre's past — he was going to take care of Em for as long as was needed, even if Em went so far gone he didn't even know him. Dre felt stronger about this now. He could do it. He could help him. He _would_ do whatever it took to help him not feel so terribly alone… whatever it took to help him so that maybe, one day, Em could be happy. Fuck the future. Dre would never ever give up on the man he loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, honestly, I don't even know. Like tho they shouldn't be trying to hide this, and Eminem does need outside help. Dre is just so protective of his little crackerjack to the point of irrationality. They gotta be alright for real, of course… seeing as how Eminem did have a track on Compton… a track which is pretty damn amazing if I say so myself… btw…  
> (((Honestly (ironically), although I don't ship Kim/Em, I respect both Em and Kim and Em is a huge inspiration to me.)))


End file.
